Sherlock woke up in hospital, a dull ache in his side when the bullet had been. Made it then.
He sighed, instantly regretting that decision, as it hurt like hell.
Mycroft was there. Sherlock could tell without even opening his eyes.
But the sighing and wincing had done it, and Mycroft knew he was awake and listening.
Sherlock opened his eyes to stare at him.
He looked tired.
"Next time, they may not find you in time," he said seriously.
And what makes you think I want to be found?
That thought startled Sherlock a bit. He wasn't suicidal, and he wasn't looking to actively end his life, but he did keep putting himself in increasingly dangerous situations, not caring what happened. What did that mean?
Mycroft seemed to notice some of this internal struggle on Sherlock's face, because he pulled a chair closer with his umbrella and sat in it.
"I can have you committed, if it must come to that," he said quietly.
Sherlock only nodded. "It won't," he whispered, and sank back into the pillows, signalling this conversation was well and truly over.
Mycroft stood up and went to the doorway, hovering for a minute, and Sherlock could tell he wanted to say something else.
"All hearts are broken. Good day Mycroft," he finished, looking away.
And with that, the man left.
Sherlock slept.
He behaved as a patient. Didn't return home until they were satisfied he was healed up enough.
Mrs Hudson fretted over him, fed him soup, which he actually ate, sitting at her kitchen table as she bustled around, giving him chunks of warm bread and butter, baking biscuits. She kept up a steady stream of nothing important, lighthearted things about Mrs Turner's married ones next door, and how they were having some domestic troubles.